


Practise

by Jabberwockette



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-17
Updated: 2013-03-17
Packaged: 2017-12-05 13:37:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/723881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jabberwockette/pseuds/Jabberwockette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If he were going to allow himself such sentimentality — and how could he not, with her? — he was damn well going to be very, very good at it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Practise

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sensitivebore](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sensitivebore/gifts).



> It's all her fault. I don't write this stuff too much, but this one was overdue. If my addled brain has accidentally borrowed phrasing or whatever else from anyone, my only explanation can be that I borrow from the best, and I adore all of you. But YOU especially. You know who you are.

He teased and tortured her bottom lip with single-minded purpose, intent on driving her beyond distraction until her only thought was him, his solid warmth, his lips, hands, tongue. He might have been a bit out of practise, but there was a solution for that — and he certainly knew _something_ about kissing a woman; perhaps it appealed to his pursuit of perfecting the art of service. The logical conclusion for a man who spent so much time around delicate women that he could not touch or want, save to open their doors, escort them down from a carriage or take their furs.  
  
"Mmmmm….."  
  
She was unable to form a sentence, and he smiled against her, began nibbling at the tenderest spot between her neck and earlobe.  
  
"So sweet…" he murmured softly as he nipped ever so gently right _there,_ and she gasped again.  
  
"Mister Ca--… Mister Carson, please, I… oh God…"  
  
"Ah, not quite God, I think, Mrs. Hughes," he whispered softly with a smile, a fingertip briefly tracing the shell of her ear until she trembled. _Yes, just like_ _that_ , he thought, turning then to attend to the delectable spot at her collarbone.  
  
No, not God, but maybe as close to heaven as he could manage. For what were his tender ministrations if not an extension of his instinct to do things properly? The expertly-laid table. The perfectly pressed cuff. Exquisite restraint in word and movement. And now, here, making love to her _(finally, christ, so long they'd both wanted, waited, held back)_ — such passion, yet so controlled that every precise touch was intended to provoke a specific response.  
  
"Oh, yes. Yes please…"  
  
"Tell me, my heart. Show me what you like."  
  
With her, he could become the culmination of the perfect, observant servant. To gauge her reactions, listen to the hitch of her breathing, feel the quickening of her heartbeat, learn and remember where and how to touch her to elicit more. To anticipate what she would want before she knew it herself — wasn't this his life's work?  
  
"Yes, please, there, oh, dear man…"  
  
"Beautiful woman. Delicious…"  
  
Her hands, having first gently caressed his face, were now worked firmly through his hair, holding tightly. She so wanted to take more control, to return his sweet, caring, meticulous service with her own. She would. But not today. Today, she couldn't find it in herself to complain, not when he was doing _that_ with his hands _(oh sweet heaven, please, yes, lower, godyesplease)_ while his lips traveled down, between her breasts, coaxing another low moan from her.  
  
"Oh…."  
  
He smiled up at her warm eyes and flushed cheeks and soft, sweet mouth for a moment before returning to his ministrations, his lips finally, blissfully closing over a hardened nipple, a large, warm hand sliding into the heat between her thighs. He felt her head fall back as strong fingers _(so strong, yes, christ almighty, she could make him do anything, anything at all with those hands)_ gripped the back of his head and pressed him closer.  
  
"Oh, Mister _Carson!"_  
  
 _Perfection,_ he thought.  
  
Perfection.


End file.
